


These Photographs Mean Nothing

by ElectraRhodes



Series: The Angry River Rises - AU Dr Plushy Pants AU [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: AU for Dr Plushy Pants AU, Angst, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Not Fluff, Will is from a different AU, canonical death, fuck all comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes
Summary: In his own world Will and Hannibal have been together for months. It's been challenging but things look positive. Everything changes when after a terrible seizure Will wakes up in a world very like but not the same as his own. And he's in prison.Two AUs for season two running in parallel.This is the not fluffy one where Hannibal is the Ripper: The Angry River Rises





	These Photographs Mean Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emptyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptyheart/gifts).



> The Angry River Rises Series - 
> 
> Chapter is several ahead of last update, but this has been written for months and must be posted before I lose my nerve.
> 
> DaringD it will make you sad, don't read. Probably Evertonem too! 
> 
>  
> 
> Eventually this episode will be put into sequence. At the moment it's a stand alone.

Matthew Brown is waiting in the cafe where he frequently meets Freddie Lounds. At first he'd wondered if it was coincidence, now he knows it's not, but that's ok. They've got the kind of deal Matthew understands. And that Will understands too. He and Will. Yeah. They're pretty alike, two hawks.

'Matthew. Hey' Freddie is unusually subdued 'you want coffee of something, my shout?'

'Yeah. Thanks. Shall I get it, get you one too?'

'Sure, here, use this' she hands him a couple of fives.

When he's back she's decided how to tell him

'Will's friend Beverly?'

'Yeah. Asian lady? Long hair? Yeah. She's nice. Loyal. Comes to see Mr Graham regular like. Cheers him up. Funny. Why? What about her?'

'She's dead' the look on Matthews face would be comical if it wasn't so awful. He doesn't say anything for a bit, puts sugar in his coffee. Stirs it, drinks a few mouthfuls,

'Wasn't an accident was it?'

'No. not an accident'

'Ripper? Copycat?'

'I'd say Ripper, it was a very sophisticated display'

'Yeah? Was it? Fucking bastard'

He's angry and vehement now. It's how she feels too. What she knew of Beverly Katz she appreciated and respected. Almost liked her. Which is something after all as that's not really Freddie's style.

'Yes. Fucking bastard. Truly. Can you get it to Will Graham? They probably won't tell him for a bit, and Chilton would use it to mess with him? Crawford would use it to, oh I don't know, fuck with him just a little bit more, I guess. Will you do that? I definitely don't want it to be Lecter who tells him'

Matthew looks at her, maybe she's another one of Will's small group of disciples who do actually believe him. Not about the dream business, because that's just too far out, but that he's not who the evidence suggests he is. He finishes his coffee.

'Yeah. Alright. I can go in. Make sure he knows.' He takes a series of shallow breaths, like readying yourself for a big breath where you dive underwater and swim as far as you can, and as fast 'I'll do it now' 

he's resolved. He thinks about something Will had said to him a week ago, about the word for angel coming from the Greek word for messenger. He'll tell him, he'll tell his friend. Be the messenger, the dark angel for this bit of tragedy.

'Have you got pictures? Is that how you know?'

'Tip off. Yes. I'll show you one. So you can tell Will. It's bad, Matthew? You ok to see something bad? Nightmare bad?'

'Stuff Mr Graham looks at all the time? That kind of bad?'

She nods, and he holds his hand out. She gets her camera out of her bag and looks for something, then hands it over. He looks. Hands the camera back. Gets up. Puts his jacket on. Goes without a backward glance or another word.

...................

'Mr Graham, I've got your breakfast here. You wanna eat it whilst it's hot?'

'What is it today Em?'

Matthew gets stuck, a little choked on what he's going to say, this is their usual food banter "what is it? You're guess is as good as mine" they say it every meal. A little ritual. 

'Mr Graham? Something bad has happened' he pauses and then gets very quiet, tries for a deep breath, steadying, 'Freddie Lounds asked me to tell you, she didn't want Chilton or your boss...'. He's only mouthing the words now as he glances up at the camera and microphones.

Will stills 'oh? How bad?'

'Your friend? The fed lady?'

Beverly. Oh god. no. No. no.

No.

No.

No.  
....................

Jack sits across from Will in the visitors room. He takes the scene photographs from a file and puts them on the table. Laid face down. In front of Will.

'They won't be enough' he grits out. It's never good enough from photos. 'I have to see her Jack. These mean nothing' he waves disdainfully over the images 'nothing' he emphasises. 

They come and truss Will up like a chicken. Straitjacket, shackles, mask. The full works. He's put onto a porter's trolley like some piece of luggage and is wheeled out.

At the scene he mostly wants to cry. Howl his despair. Beverly. Beverly. Beverly. No. no. No. Oh Beverly. I love you. Don't be dead. Don't be dead. Please, please, please, don't be dead.

He looks at the melting liquid on the floor, his friend draining away. This is Hannibal, all Hannibal, the Ripper version. Cruel. Calculating. Without mercy. Who takes everything away from him. Who still has some violent distorted obsession with him. God. No. No. No.

Jack sends the other agents and police out, undoes the shackles and the mask and the straitjacket. Gets him free from all these things. There's some fellow feeling here. For their colleague. Their friend. For each other. Will can feel compassion being telegraphed from Jack's every pore. So what? Fuck Jack. Fuck them all.

Beverly.

He walks the length of the observatory. In his world he and Hannibal have been to a talk here. Will used to come regularly. He got Hannibal to come one mellow late autumn evening. They'd had a good conversation on the way back to Hannibal's house in Baltimore. They'd talked a little about astronomy, Newtonian physics versus Einstein versus Quantum. A bit about Stephen Hawking. Hannibal had explained his theory of time. His tea cup analogy. It had made Will smile. Reminded him of their first breakfast. That unfortunate day.

This is another kind of unfortunate day. If he ever gets back to his world, his dream, his whatever the fuck it was, is, he will find Beverly and hug her and tell her every damn thing about why she is so great. People shouldn't leave it to obituaries. Fucking tell your friends now! He simply lets the tears fall. He bends over as though winded, rests his hands on his knees as though he feels faint.

'Alright?' Jack is a voice from another planet

'Yeah' he sees Jack back off, out of the way, out of sight. Will closes his eyes.

................

When Hannibal arrives at the BSHCI he notes the atmosphere. He's not attuned to people's feelings as Will is, but he can still sense the mournfulness hanging over the community. If it could be designated such. One of the orderlies, Barney? Maybe. Comes to escort him to the basement. He is usually polite, courteous, but today he is simply showing Hannibal through doorways and past check points. None of the guards say much either.

Down in the very bottom of the building, the little coterie of impossibles is also quiet. Even murderous Miggs has nothing to say. All the men sit quietly on their beds. At the far end of the hallway Will is in his own cell sitting on the chair at the small table. 

'Hello Will' Hannibal manages his usual greeting with an air of normalcy.

'Hello Dr Lecter. Do you have a piece of paper?' Will stands and holds out a hand as though expecting he's sure to have one.

Hannibal opens his document case and pulls out a loose sheet of foolscap. He hands it through the bars to Will, aware that this is prohibited but intrigued enough to risk it.

'Thank you' he pauses 'I won't be long'

Will sits again and spends the next five, ten minutes folding. At the end he is content and stands. He comes close to the bars and holds what ever he has made close to his lips and blows gently. The little paper package inflates slightly. Will offers it to Hannibal through the bars. 

Hannibal glances back at the guard's station but the two men, Barney and another younger orderly are looking another way. Perhaps deliberately.

He holds his hand close to Will's outstretched one. Will carefully places his creation in Hannibal's hand gently curling Hannibal's fingers round it. He steps back from the bars. Hannibal too takes a step back and looks at what Will has given him. It's a small paper heart. Not a romantic heart. An origami model of the real thing. Will used the aorta to blow into it and make it three dimensional. It's a rather lovely thing. Terrible too. Really.

'Hannibal'

Hannibal looks up sharply, Will has never used his given name before, Will is looking at him steadily and calmly

'Hannibal. Here's my heart. You already had it. Maybe you didn't know. Next time' and he sighs then 'next time you have that impulse, just crush it instead'

He says nothing more and goes back to the bed and sits down, leaning back against the wall. He closes his eyes.

'Will? Will' Hannibal spends five minutes trying to compel Will to interact with him further. As he leaves he walks back past the other men's cells. All of them, as one, are standing at the bars of their cells watching him balefully. Not with hatred. A kind of uncomfortable warm acknowledgment. It makes Hannibal feel faintly aggravated. As if he has something left undone, unproved, unsustainable. This in turn unsettles him. Damn. He may have miscalculated. Sacrificed a Queen when he thought it merely a pawn or perhaps, a knight.

................

'Hannibal hello. I thought. I thought it would be nice to have a drink or something. Are you busy? Yes. That's right. Not very well actually. Not as much as I'd have liked. Yes. Yes. I agree. Oh. Oh. I see ok. Another time then? Thanks Hannibal. Bye'

Alana puts down her cell. Unlike Hannibal to not be available mid week.

*Dr Lecter, when you have a moment I'd be grateful for a call. We're looking to try and progress some aspects of Beverly Katz's death. Will's seen the scene now and I'd be grateful for some additional input. It's a difficult time. I know you're new to the team, but condolences to you too. Sincerely Jack Crawford*

#Dear Hannibal,

I understand one of your new colleagues at the FBI has been killed. I anticipate this to have affected you in multiple ways. If it would be of purpose we might arrange an emergency session. Please call me to set one up.

With regret,

Bedelia Du Maurier#

On the desk in his office a small Perspex box contains the paper heart. Hannibal has enclosed it to prevent him from either accidentally or shortsightedly crushing or crumpling it. He's sitting behind the desk looking at it. Considering its meaning.

Beside the box is a bottle of his better brandy, he's made some significant inroads into it. The snifter beside it has been used more times than he has counted. Almost certainly it isn't helping him understand the nuances of what Will said to him. But it's helping him get more in touch with the primal anger that is swirling around his brain.

What infuriates him is that the anger is all directed inwards. He is angry with himself. And has an urge to some kind of destruction. Something that will hurt him. Ideally it would be Will who hurt him. And he could have faced it from Will, with a kind of righteous pride, that he had compelled Will Graham forward another step. Instead Will had spoken gently, softly. With a kind of terrible tenderness. And Hannibal has no idea what to do with this form of influence.

He has ignored emails, calls, a hand delivered letter and several texts today. After the conversation with Alana he has let his phone go to his answering service. He cannot countenance the thought of talking to anyone. Except Will. Except Will. Will is always and forever the exception to everything else in his life. He looks at his watch. 8:30pm. He has almost certainly drunk too much to be driving. Never the less.

An hour later he is in Wolf Trap drinking the same brandy but now ensconced in one of the arm chairs in Will's living room a blanket pulled over him. He has switched one of the space heaters on. It takes the chill off the air. He gets up and restlessly walks around, he picks up a book marked half way through, concerning the Renaissance. Puts it back. Switches on the radio, a classical station. Frowns. Classical? He switches it off. He goes into the kitchen. Everything is gone from the fridge. There is coffee though and a French press. 

He goes up the stairs and looks in at the mostly empty bedroom. Checks the bathroom, smells the toiletries, a sharp reminder of Will. If he were asked what he is doing? Well, he supposes he is looking for something, but what he doesn't know. He reads the book titles in the small upstairs study/home office. Still angry. Back downstairs he finds a half carved spoon and a whittling knife. Will gave him a spoon for his birthday, just over a month ago. He hadn't said he'd made it. It was just a nice piece of walnut smoothed and pleasing. A coffee scoop.

Hannibal strokes the spoon, the rough and the smooth of it. If he knew what to do he'd finish it. Channel some energy into taking the wood apart to reveal the beautiful thing inside. A metamorphosis of a kind. He puts it back. Not trusting himself with the curved knife.

In the small mud room there is a washer and dryer. There are still clothes in the dryer. Hannibal pulls them out and folds them, puts them into drawers in the dresser. Socks rolled. If asked he would be hard put to explain the various impulses coursing through him.

But he's ruthless with himself. The anger is still there. But there's something else, a kind of ache. A yearning. A possessive urge. He sits back down in the chair. Drinks a few more sips of brandy. Holds the glass loosely in one hand and then throws it hard into the back of the fireplace. He'll have to clear it up. But for now it's a marker. An acknowledgement. 

He sets his head against the back of the chair and breathes hard through his nose. Closes his eyes. When sleep comes she is a thief in the night robbing him of the comfort of being awake and able to steer his mind. Not so in his dreams. Where there is unwarranted kindness and unspeakable sweetness, and even perhaps the faintest scent of love. Which he is compelled to accept, against his want but according to his need. And oh how great is his need.


End file.
